


Get Out of Town

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Manpain, Post-Canon, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated with Charles and Erik’s inability to act like rational adults even in their seventies, Mystique sends them on a vacation to figure out their feelings.</p><p>(Alternately: Old dudes in mangsty schmoopy love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Out of Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [listerinezero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/gifts).



> **listerinezero** requested a fic based on [this photoset](http://sakurazukalori.tumblr.com/post/30654668709) in the xmentales chat; this is the fic I wrote to fill that. It was intended to be less than 100 words, but it...kind of got away from me.
> 
> Thanks to [oxymora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoron) for the beta (though any final mistakes are mine) and hand-holding and for making Charles more Charles-ish, to [professor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professor) for being a sounding board and helping me come up with ideas, and to the xmentales chat for all the encouragement, excitement, and hand-holding. <3

Three weeks after Erik returns to the mansion for good, Raven ( _Mystique_ , Charles still has to remind himself, even after all these years; she stopped responding to Raven decades ago, and these days, instead of it making her furious as it used to in the years immediately following Cuba, it just makes her sad, and that's…worse) stomps into the study, naked and blue as she always is, and throws a slim envelope onto Charles's desk. 

"What's this?" Charles asks, lifting it up and looking at it speculatively. It's completely blank, nothing written on it to give him a hint of what it might contain. He could read her mind, he supposes, but he's kept his promise to her even now—even if she doesn't believe he has—and it seems silly to break it for something this trivial.

"Just open it," she says, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him, her golden eyes flashing. He raises an eyebrow but does as she says, lifting the unsealed flap cautiously, painfully aware of how easily he gets papercuts these days. 

He pulls out two open-ended first-class airline tickets, sets them on the desk, and raises an eyebrow at her. 

"For you and Erik," she says. "Use them, don't use them, it's your choice; but the two of you have to _go_. We're all going crazy here with your two-steps-forward, five-steps-back dance, and if I catch you two eyefucking over dinner but not _doing_ anything about it again, I swear I'm going to string you both up by your balls."

" _Raven_ ," he splutters, mildly horrified. "We're not—that is—"

She rolls her eyes. "I really, really, _really_ don't care what's going on with the two of you, or why you've suddenly decided that you can't stay in the same room as each other for longer than five minutes without turning mopey and ridiculous after about forty years of bickering and intermittent fucking—"

"Language," he chides automatically. 

She gives him a look that says, _Really?_ , continuing as if he hadn't interrupted "—but it has to _stop_. Even Cyclops has noticed. And if Scott Summers is getting his head out of his ass long enough to notice the two of you pining all over the house, I think you have to admit that you've got a problem."

It's Charles's turn to roll his eyes. "Your dislike of Scott Summers aside—"

"The guy's a douche, Charles, come on, I know you think so, too, or he wouldn't be your presumptive heir—"

" _Regardless_ ," he says, firmly. He doesn't really have an argument to the contrary; Scott Summers, capable as he is of taking the school's reins, spends most of his time alternating between arguing with Logan and glaring at everyone who isn't Jean. And anyway, Scott isn't the issue here. Deciding discretion is the better part of valor, Charles purses his lips and says, poshly as he can, "Regarding Erik and myself: I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

Ra— _Mystique_ sighs, relaxing a little. "Charles. You can deny it to me all you like, but you know I'm right." She walks forward and takes his hand, squeezes it lightly before letting go and walking to the door. She pauses just before leaving, her hand on the doorknob, and says, " _Fix_ this, Charles."

"Why aren't you talking to Erik?" he asks. She laughs. 

"Oh, don't worry," she says ominously. "He's next." 

***

That night at dinner, Charles catches Erik's eye for the fiftieth time, but this time, he holds Erik's gaze instead of looking away immediately. From the way Erik reddens slightly, Charles knows Ra— _Mystique_ , Christ—cornered him, too, and that gives him the courage he needs. 

_Chess after dinner?_ he thinks, the barest whisper of a thought, ghosting just at the edges of Erik's shields. 

Erik sits up straight, his eyes widening. Charles tilts his head very slightly, keeping his expression impassive even as his insides twist themselves into knots. _Well?_ he asks.

Erik nods jerkily. 

Well, that's a start. 

***

It isn't that Erik and Charles have been…avoiding each other _per se_ , but—

All right, fine, it's exactly that. 

It was one thing for them to meet up in the park for the odd game of chess or to arrange secret rendezvous in anonymous motel rooms or even to just talk on the phone every now and again; it had allowed them some illusion of secrecy, some freedom to at least pretend that no one knew about their relationship.

(Everyone knew. Charles can sometimes be willfully ignorant, but he's neither stupid nor delusional—no matter what Mystique may say—and he's a telepath to boot.)

But now, for the first time since 1962, they're living under the same roof, seeing each other multiple times a day, every day, and neither one of them is quite sure how to handle it, their rhythm thrown off. 

Erik, of course, is still harboring feelings of guilt because that's what he does best, and even though they've long since worked past the initial trigger of Cuba, it's not as if the two of them haven't had larger (and worse) arguments since. At this point, given that Erik has hung up his cloak and that awful, awful helmet, Charles is willing to let almost everything slide; he's here now, isn't he? 

But not everyone is as forgiving as Charles. Nearly all the students and teachers, having come up against Magneto at least once, still harbor feelings of resentment and anger, and Charles has had enough conversations that begin (and end) with, "I still don't understand why he's _here_ ," in the past three weeks to satisfy him for a lifetime. His answer always involves mutant solidarity and never turning away anyone who wants what the school (and Charles) offers, but the simple truth of it is: Erik is here because Charles wants him to be here, because he (hopefully) wants to be here with Charles, and as far as Charles is concerned, that's all that matters.

Even so, Charles can't quite bring himself to believe that Erik is here to stay, that he's not going to leave in the night without so much as a good-bye, deciding that living with Charles is just too much for him and that he prefers the (awful, _awful_ ) way they were living before. So he's been cautious, taking things slowly and trying not to push Erik for anything he may not be willing to give, even though Charles wants nothing more than to bury himself in Erik's mind and revel in the fact that it's always there, always open to him, after so many years of being hidden under the helmet. 

But he won't deny that he's tired of this, too. They're over seventy; surely they should be able to get past this and make use of the time they have left, surely they should be able to ignore everyone and everything else and just do whatever makes them happy. And yet…it seems some things never change.

(Sometimes, when he's particularly frustrated, Charles wonders if he should just throw caution to the winds and show up naked in Erik's bed.

Mystique's always been the better strategist, though, so he's willing to try her method first. But if it fails, he’s following his initial instinct. They haven't had sex in ages, and now that Erik's shed that horrific costume in favor of his preferred suits and fedoras, Charles spends most of his days wondering exactly how soon twenty cases of viagra will arrive if he orders them _now_.)

Something is going to have to give.

***

Erik beats Charles to the study, Charles detained by Jean wanting to talk with him about something involving the school’s medical equipment. When Charles arrives, the chessboard is already set up, their customary after-dinner drinks in place. Erik sips on his martini, his eyes burning into Charles’s as he wheels across the room. Charles nearly runs into the table holding the chessboard, so focused is he on Erik's gaze, but he stops himself at the last second, looking down at the board so he can avoid the intensity of Erik's regard just for a moment.

…Oh, now this is interesting. Erik's given him black. 

Charles looks up and raises an eyebrow; Erik smiles and shrugs one shoulder in response. Charles raises his other eyebrow, but says nothing, taking hold of his glass tumbler and raising it in a silent toast. Erik mirrors the gesture. 

"So," Charles says, after he's taken a rather large gulp of his scotch, the liquid courage burning down his throat. 

"Yes," Erik replies, setting his glass down. 

"I do believe it's your move," Charles says, then nearly winces at the bluntness of the statement. From the way the corner of Erik's lip quirks, it's evident Charles wasn't the only one to catch his unintentional double meaning. 

"Quite right," Erik says, moving his pawn. He doesn’t say anything else, just leans back and watches Charles.

Charles mirrors the action, and then Erik moves his knight. He's playing aggressively; that's a good sign.

"I've missed this," Charles comments, a few moves later. The game's fairly even, and moving at a brisk pace; they've played each other so much over the years that it's easy for them to fall into familiar rhythms, each able to predict the other's next ten moves at least. 

"As have I," Erik returns, capturing a pawn. 

"I really don't know why we haven't done this earlier," Charles murmurs, moving his knight. Erik gives him his patented 'Don't play the idiot, Charles,' look. It doesn't hold any malice, though, and Erik's thoughts are tinged with amusement and buzzing a little from the alcohol, no sign of anger or guilt in sight. Charles decides now's as good a time as any to broach the topic of this afternoon's conversation with Mystique. Before Erik can make his next move, Charles reaches across the board and captures his hand. Erik raises an eyebrow.

"Mystique came to talk to me today," Charles says. "And I'm guessing she came after you, too."

"She did," Erik says, unable to resist a fond smirk at the thought of his (technically, former) lieutenant. "I'm assuming she made the same threat to you as she did me?"

"If it involved mutilation of certain…fragile pieces of your anatomy," Charles says delicately, "she most certainly did." They both laugh slightly at that, and Charles leans back in his chair, releasing Erik's hand somewhat reluctantly. "Did she tell you her solution?"

"Not in so many words, no," Erik says. He takes a sip of his martini. "Do tell, Charles."

Charles produces the envelope containing the tickets from the pocket of his cardigan and slides it across the table. Erik picks it up, looks inside, and gives it back, a quizzical expression on his face. 

"Mystique shoved them in my hands this morning; they're meant for us,” Charles explains. “She insists we leave within the week, or she won't be responsible for her actions." He pauses, clears his throat. "Of course, both of us are fully-grown men, able to make our own choices, and if you’d rather not go..." He trails off, looking at a point just over Erik’s shoulder, and now it's Erik's turn to take Charles's hand. 

"Charles," he says, the gentle tone of his voice belying the mocking glint in his eye. "I would love to travel with you."

Charles swallows. Well, that's settled, then. 

***

Of course, it's not that simple. The problem with open-ended tickets is that now Charles and Erik have to decide where to go, and—as with everything else—they can't agree. 

Erik insists that as much as he loves Europe, he's seen it all before, and he'd much rather go somewhere _new_. Of course, finding somewhere new is virtually impossible, because their lives have necessitated a fairly extensive degree of travel, and all the conventional travel spots are out. Then there's the wheelchair to consider, which leads them both to categorically rule out any place with beaches or anything involving exploring the great outdoors. Erik refuses to go to the Middle East; Charles does _not_ want to suffer the flight to Australia. Canada has too many bears. And having to navigate Indian traffic will undoubtedly lead to Erik causing an international incident on the streets of Mumbai, which Charles would rather not have to deal with. 

At some point, Mystique suggests they should ask Azazel to take them to Siberia and just _leave_ them there. They both whirl on her furiously, and she backs out of the library before Erik can start throwing things. 

"That's it," Ororo declares, storming in on the third day of this madness. "Your bickering is scaring the youngest children, and we're all sick of the yelling and watching our light fixtures flicker, and Charles, you need to stop projecting visions of Paris, or I'm going to get on the next plane there and never come back." She grabs an atlas from one of the twenty piles of travel-related books scattered around the library. "I'm going to pick a random page, and whatever it is, you're going. I don't care if it's Antarctica or Timbuktu or the French Riviera; you are both leaving this house for a month. At least."

With that, she blows on the pages, setting them flipping in a light breeze. After a moment, her eyes return to their normal brown, and the page settles, landing on—

"Italy," Erik says flatly.

"It _is_ rather pleasant this time of year,” Charles tries, frustrated enough with their inability to compromise that he’s quite willing to put the decision in someone else’s hands. He musters up a feeling of excitement and projects it at Erik in an attempt to sway him. 

Erik sighs.

"Fine," he grumbles. "But we're not going to Rome. Or Sicily. Or Florence. Or—"

"Venice," Charles says. "We'll go to Venice. I've never been, you know."

" _Canals_ , Charles."

" _Gondolas_ ," Charles replies, wheeling himself to one of the nearest stacks. " _Art. Wine._ And," he continues, absently as he pulls out all of the books they have on Italy, some of them older than the unification of the Italian peninsula, "they've done some very good work to make it accessible, or so I hear. If it's truly impossible, we'll get a villa or something similar, since you've systematically ruled out _every other city_ in the country for reasons I don't quite comprehend."

Erik's jaw tightens. There's a flash of…something about Erik's misspent youth, and something about Nazis, and—

 _Oh._

Well, he's being terribly insensitive, isn't he.

"We can get a villa," Charles offers, his tone gentling. "No cities, no tourists, no one but us." (To be honest, he rather prefers this idea, though he would still like to go on a gondola ride with Erik.)

"The two of us, alone in the same house, for an extended period of time?" Erik asks. Charles can't quite decipher his tone; it's not quite upset, not quite concerned, not quite excited, and Erik's mind is such a jumble of emotions that it's no help, either. 

"Problem?" Charles asks lightly, sounding far more casual than he feels. He realizes they're the only ones in the room: at some point, Ororo ducked out without him noticing. That's good; if Erik's going to reject him, he'd rather it be while they're alone. But:

"Not at all," Erik replies, his voice a little hoarse. He bends down, and for a glorious moment, Charles thinks Erik is going to kiss him. For that same moment, it seems that Erik thinks he's going to kiss Charles, too.

But then he reaches over and grabs one of the books Charles has set aside, straightens up, and strides out of the room without another word.

Two steps forward, five steps backward, indeed.

***

"Charles," Erik grits out when he comes down the stairs and sees Charles sitting in the midst of no fewer than ten steamer trunks. "Did you _really_ have to pack the entire library in your luggage?"

"I did no such thing," Charles retorts. He _may_ have packed every single book on Italy, along with several genetics textbooks and a number of Italian-to-English dictionaries (which neither of them really needs, but Charles has never seen the harm in being prepared), but it's hardly the _entire_ library. He actually thinks he’s been quite restrained; for instance, he’s left several of his desert-island texts behind, as they’re all already downloaded to the Kindle Ororo gave him several months ago. 

(He’s still a little skeptical that the device is all the students in the house claim it to be, though. For one, not all the books Charles wants to take are digitally available; for another, he can’t quite see how one can really get the full experience of reading without feeling the weight of a book in their hands, without hearing the rustle of the pages. And then, of course, there’s the fact that he hasn’t quite figured out how to _work_ the blasted thing with anything resembling competence yet. Hence: several trunks’ worth of books.)

Erik rolls his eyes. "I hope you don't expect me to carry those, because I won't."

"Of course not," Charles says, turning to fuss with the straps on the nearest trunk. "I was planning to hire porters. It's what I generally do." 

" _Charles_." Erik slams his hand on top of the trunk, startling Charles into looking up at him. Erik's nostrils are flaring, and oh, that's never a good sign. He's probably going to mangle Charles's luggage at this rate. "No. No porters. We are not _paying_ people to be pack-mules for you."

For a moment, Charles has the urge to say something _awful_ , something that he knows will lead to Erik storming out furiously and vowing never to return. Erik's eyes are flashing, almost daring him—he knows what Charles is thinking, of course he does—but for once, Charles keeps his mouth shut. 

"Well, then, what do you propose?" Charles asks. "I can't very well travel with only the clothes on my back." 

He ignores the sudden dirty turn of Erik's thoughts.

Erik heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I'll do it. But since I’ll be the one handling the luggage, I get to set the rules. _One_ trunk, Charles, no more. And no more than ten books."

"Two trunks," Charles bargains, "and thirty books."

"One," Erik retorts, "and _five_ books." He waves his hand, sweeping all the trunks except the one sitting by Charles against the wall. "And if you keep protesting, I may just…forget _all_ your things here."

"You wouldn't," Charles huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Try me."

"Oh, my _God_ ," Mystique bursts out, coming in through the front door from where she's left the car idling in the drive. "Just shut up and _leave_ , already!"

Charles is about to indignantly respond that there is no way he’s leaving without at least fifty books, because a month is a _long_ time, and he and Erik can only play so many games of chess (especially if they’re still not having sex), when Ororo walks up.

“We did give you a Kindle just so you’d avoid this, you know,” she says. 

“It’s not the same,” he argues. “You can’t just replace books with a slate—there’s a whole _experience_ that’s missed.” 

“You haven’t figured out how to work it yet, have you,” Erik says flatly.

“...Not the point,” Charles says. 

Erik sighs. “Charles. Be honest. How many of the books you’ve packed are you _really_ going to read?”

“At least half of them,” Charles says, folding his arms across his chest. Erik raises an eyebrow. 

_I thought the whole point of this was for us to spend time together_ , he thinks. _Alone._

_Well, if you promise me that’ll actually happen—_

_Promise_ , Erik says, completely serious. 

“Fine,” Charles says. He points at the one trunk carrying his clothes and personal effects (and twenty of the books he can’t live without). “That one goes. We can leave the rest.” 

"Excellent,” Erik says. He levitates the trunk, floating it to the door. 

"Where's _your_ luggage?" Charles asks, looking around the hall. The only trunks he sees are his own. Erik smirks and flicks his hand; a small suitcase wheels itself down the hall, followed by a floating suit bag. 

"There," he says. 

Charles stares. Erik rolls his eyes. 

"You know I travel light, Charles. I always have." 

"Yes, but—"

" _Going_ ," Mystique says, pushing Charles's wheelchair in the direction of the door. " _Now_." 

"Wait!" They all turn to see Hank barreling down the stairs, looking terribly frantic about something.

"Oh, _now_ what," Mystique grumbles. He ignores her, making a beeline for Charles and shoving a medium-sized brown package at him.

"What's this?" Charles asks, looking at Hank. He pokes the package; it crinkles, feeling oddly squishy. 

Hank mutters something inaudible, blushing and looking at his feet. 

"Come again?"

"Condoms," Hank says. He looks up at Charles, pushing his glasses up his nose as he adopts his lecturing pose. "STD prevalence is rising among older couples—"

"Oh, God," Charles says, running a hand over his face as he's struck by the urge to throw the deceptively innocuous package as far from him as possible. 

"Well, I'm assuming you packed your viagra," Hank tries again, and dear Lord, he’s still trying to continue with this. 

" _Hank_ ," he says instead, very determinedly ignoring the whirring cogs of Erik's brain. "Stop talking."

"No, Hank," Erik says silkily, flashing his most brilliant smile and placing a hand on Charles’s shoulder. "Please, do go on." Charles adopts his sternest face as Hank looks quickly between him and Erik. Then, because Hank is a very, _very_ , smart man, he turns around and walks briskly—well, practically runs—away. 

"Well," Erik says, smirking. "That was enlightening." 

Charles whirls around and wordlessly wheels himself out the door.

***

Charles will never admit Mystique was right, but even being in the car, away from the mansion, is like a breath of fresh air. Erik actually meets his gaze, smiles, laughs, talks to him, and it's as if the past several weeks of awkwardness have melted away, their not-always-easy friendship returning. (Their bickering over the past week as they’ve tried to nail down the details of this trip has also helped, but damned if Charles wants to think about what _that_ means.)

Best of all: When Charles, feeling daring, reaches over and takes Erik's hand, Erik lifts their clasped hands to his lips and kisses Charles's knuckles, his eyes alight with promise.

"Stop eyefucking in the backseat, it's disturbing," Mystique comments, not taking her eyes off the road.

Charles just laughs, feeling strangely light for the first time in ages as he basks in the warm glow of Erik's thoughts. 

***

"Tell me again," Charles says, as he looks at the longest line for security he's ever seen, "why we couldn't have taken the Blackbird."

Mystique, pink-skinned and black-haired so as not to cause a terrorist scare in JFK, rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding? I'm not doing that to Hank." She pauses, then amends, "Well, no one else would let me do that to Hank."

"Pity," Erik says. Really, the two of them are so perfectly suited to each other; Charles envies the ease of their interactions. "Ah, well." Erik takes off his jacket, drapes it over one arm, and holds out his other hand to Charles. "Shall we?"

"If we must." Charles sighs heavily, placing his hand in Erik's.

" _Go_ ," Mystique says. "I am going to stand here and watch you two go through security, and if you even _think_ of coming back—"

"Yes, yes, we know, Mystique, insults to our manhood and threats to our genitalia," Charles drawls, wheeling away. 

"Don't come back until you've fucked!" she yells after them. Charles tries very hard to avoid running himself into the wall as Erik snickers. 

***

An hour later, while they're waiting for their flight to board, Erik, not looking at Charles, asks, _You did pack your viagra, yes?_

 _What do you take me for?_ Charles replies. _Of course I did, though at the time, it was rather more the result of wishful thinking than any kind of expectation._

Erik withdraws slightly, an edge of hurt coloring his thoughts. 

_I'm sorry_ , Charles thinks. _That was unnecessary_.

 _Not entirely_ , Erik concedes, after a particularly tense moment of silence. _I'm sorry, too._

Charles squeezes Erik's hand gently, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

***

By the time they get to the villa, though, the magic of leaving the mansion and finally being alone together has faded, leaving them both tired and cranky. Erik is worn out from constantly monitoring all the metal pieces of the airplane even though Charles assured him the pilot was completely confident the whole time, we're not going to crash, Erik, _relax_ , for God's sake, and Charles is exhausted from maintaining a low-level scan to avoid any threats and to keep people from noticing who they were (seriously, he should have just put his foot down and insisted on taking the Blackbird, he's never doing this again) and from trying to figure out this infernal contraption Ororo gave him. 

"I don't understand why you're having so much trouble working this out," Erik says, his fingers flying across the screen of the Kindle. "A _child_ can use this. Many do." He turns and presents it to Charles. "Here. _Again_." 

Charles frowns at the screen, taking in the page from _The Once and Future King_ that Erik's loaded. It still doesn't feel _right_. "I don't understand how this can be a book. It lacks all the necessary features: pages, binding—"

"I'm not doing this with you again," Erik growls, grabbing his case and his suit bag. "Deal with it, Charles. If you want to read, you're going to have to get over your hatred of all things technological, but I refuse to stand here and listen to you rant at me about how _real_ books have a smell for the fiftieth time." He stomps over to the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, "I'm going to take a shower and then I'm taking a nap. _You_ can do whatever you'd like." 

"I will!" Charles calls at Erik's retreating back, fuming. Thirty seconds later, he looks around and realizes that Erik's left him alone in the atrium with his (far-too-heavy) trunk, with no way of getting it to his room so he can clean up until Erik stops sulking. 

_We should have got porters_ , he thinks angrily at Erik, wheeling himself outside to the pool, Kindle on his lap.

***

Three hours later, Charles is very much regretting the fit of petulance that drove him to sit in the sun for an extended period of time without first covering himself in sunblock. (On the bright side, he's finally managed to work the Kindle, and it's…not all that awful. He may have to thank Ororo when he gets home. Grudgingly.)

Erik, when he finally comes down the stairs, looking unfairly handsome in white linen trousers and a pale blue shirt, bursts out laughing when he sees Charles. 

"It's not funny," Charles grits out. He avoids the self-conscious urge to touch his throbbing scalp, knowing even without looking at it that he's red as a lobster. (A quick peek inside Erik's head confirms this.) This is why he hates being bald, why he resents Erik and his unfairly thick mop of gray hair. 

"Sorry, dear," Erik says, holding in his laughter, though his lips still twitch uncontrollably. "I know it hurts, it must feel awful." He walks over, kneels in front of Charles, and takes his freckled hands, kissing Charles's palms. 

Charles sighs and tries to maintain his glare. “Wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t run away before helping me get this settled,” he says, indicating his luggage. Erik rolls his eyes.

"You didn't need me to _open_ your trunk, now, did you, Charles? You could have got to your things just fine without me." 

…He has a point. Not that Charles is going to admit that. 

"Still," Charles says. "I blame you." Erik's lips twitch again, but he manages to hold his laughter in this time. 

"If you must," he says, and he opens Charles's trunk, starts digging through it. "Come on, let's soak your head in ice water, and then I'll help you put on the after-sun." He stands, brushing a kiss to Charles's crimson scalp. Charles tries hard not to wince, but it's a close thing. "Yes?" 

Charles is glad of the way the sunburn hides the flush spreading across his face. "I suppose that's acceptable," he grumbles, though he opens his mind and lets Erik see just how much he likes that plan. Erik smiles.

"In the future," he says, levitating Charles's trunk with barely a flick of his hand and walking in the direction of the ground floor bedrooms, "you might want to consider wearing a hat." 

Charles rolls his eyes as he follows. 

***

Charles hisses in pain. “Do take a little more care, darling,” he grits out.

Erik rolls his eyes but says nothing, still massaging the after-sun into Charles's (less-)aching scalp.

 _I still maintain that this is your fault_ , Charles says. 

_Yes, yes, every mistake you make is my fault_ , Erik thinks back, his fingers digging in a little harder. His tone is flippant, but there's an underlying edge to his thoughts that makes Charles reach up and grab his wrists, stilling his hands. 

"I don't think that, you know," he says quietly. "I don't—you—"

"I know," Erik says. He leans down and kisses Charles lightly, pulling away almost immediately, as if he's unsure of his welcome. Well, that's just silly. Charles fists his hands in Erik's shirt and surges up to press their lips together firmly. Erik gasps into Charles's mouth, his hands flailing for a few seconds before coming to rest on the arms of Charles's chair. After a minute, one of Charles's hands migrates to bury itself in Erik's hair, pulling him even closer as Charles licks into his mouth, thinking _finally finally finally_ at Erik, who echoes the thought back at him. 

Eventually, though, Erik's back starts to protest, and Charles starts developing a crick in his neck, and they pull apart, breathing heavily and looking thoroughly disheveled. 

"Fuck," Charles exhales, pressing a hand to his chest as he tries to get his rapidly racing pulse back under control. Erik's eyes, already hooded with lust, darken even further; he's always loved it when Charles curses. 

"Bed," he says, striding forward, neither a command nor a request. "Now." 

"Oh, _yes_ ," Charles says. He twines his arms around Erik's neck, lets himself be lifted and carried out of the ensuite bathroom. Erik places Charles gently on the bed, arranging his legs carefully and making sure his head is properly pillowed (it still hurts, there's nothing to be done about that, but it's far better than it was, and anyway, Charles is willing to deal with a little pain for _this_ ) before climbing on after him. Erik kisses Charles again, propping himself up with his hands as he straddles Charles's hips. Charles's hand returns itself to Erik's hair, tugging at it, and Erik moans, grinding down; his other hand reaches down and unfastens Erik's trousers, then slides under the waistband of Erik's boxers to grab his half-hard cock, stroking it to bring it to full hardness. Erik groans into Charles's mouth before he starts unbuttoning Charles's shirt with fumbling motions, his long fingers fastening around Charles's nipple through the fabric of his undershirt. Charles arches slightly, gasping into Erik's mouth and continuing to move his hand up and down, Erik thinking _yes_ and _good_ and _faster_ as his mouth leaves Charles's to latch on to his neck. Charles starts to speed up his motions to bring Erik off, then remembers—

"Wait, wait, wait," Charles says, pushing Erik off. He scrambles further up the bed until he's sitting against the headboard, his head thankfully above its edge; Erik stays propped up on one arm, staring disbelievingly after Charles. 

" _Wait_?" he asks, his voice cracking. His thoughts start panicking, and he starts to back away, thinking things like _stupid_ and _of course he doesn't want you, what were you thinking_ and—

"Shut _up_ , no, of _course_ I want you, you daft man," Charles says. "But." He smirks. "Be a dear and put on a condom, will you?" 

Erik stares blankly. "A _condom_?"

"Well, yes," Charles says, folding his arms across his chest and trying to keep himself from reaching out and pulling Erik to him. He'd promised himself his revenge, and he's going to get it. "Hank wasn’t entirely wrong—"

" _Hank_?" Erik sits up, pushes his hair out of his face. "You're talking about McCoy _now_?"

"He did have a point about Sexually Transmitted Diseases—"

Erik growls, surging forward and kissing Charles furiously. "You really need to stop talking," he says, when he pulls back. Charles just glares, though his ridiculously fast breathing belies the expression.

" _You_ ," he says, leaning forward to nip at Erik's lips, "really need to put on a condom." Erik grumbles wordlessly. "Condom," Charles says firmly, "or no sex. Your choice."

Erik gives a long-suffering sigh, then stands up fluidly and walks over to Charles's trunk, shucking clothes along the way. Charles watches Erik bend over to dig through Charles's things, greatly enjoying the view. He sends Erik that thought, and Erik wiggles his arse teasingly.

 _I swear you're asking me to spank you_ , Charles thinks, as Erik emerges victorious, holding up one condom between two long fingers with a mocking look. He very carefully tears it open, making a great show of rolling it down over his cock before walking back to the bed and kneeling between Charles's spread legs. 

"But Charles," Erik whispers, leaning in and placing his mouth by Charles's ear, "I've been so"—he nips Charles's earlobe, smirking as Charles shudders—"very"—he moves to Charles's nose, pecking it lightly—"good," he finishes against Charles's lips. 

Charles inhales sharply, reaching between them to take Erik in hand, his other hand sliding back to palm Erik's arse. It's strange to be using a condom, Charles so used to the weight and texture of Erik's naked cock, but never let it be said that he doesn't follow through. 

"Very good indeed," he murmurs against Erik's lips, and Erik just moans and starts thrusting into Charles's hand, his hands coming up to tear at the few still-fastened buttons of Charles's shirt. He finally undoes them, then shoves up Charles's undershirt until Charles's nipples are bared to him again. He sucks on Charles's neck as he works his nipples, and Charles continues to jerk him off, twisting his hand in the way he knows Erik likes and squeezing Erik's ass rhythmically with each stroke. 

_Come in_ , Erik thinks, flicking his tongue against Charles's pulse point. _Come in, Charles, come in, I want you in here—_

Charles gasps, his rhythm stuttering as he's momentarily overcome with love and awe and disbelief. Even after all these years of sleeping together, after finally reconciling, after slowly getting used to Erik's mind being open to him once again, he still can't help feeling a sense of wonder that Erik wants him—that, more than that, Erik wants him in his mind, _invites_ him in now, especially after all those years of silence—

 _Stop thinking_ , Erik projects, moving up to kiss Charles again. For once, Charles listens: he closes his eyes and exhales slowly into Erik's mouth as he slides into Erik's mind completely. He suddenly feels everything twice as sharply, immerses himself in the mirrored sensations inherent to this type of intimacy. Erik gasps as he, too, grows acclimated to the feeling and allows Charles in, all his barriers lowered for once. 

_So much so good love you so much_ Charles hears, and he doesn't know with whom it originates and he's not sure it much matters as it picks up, reflecting and refracting between the two of them, amplifying until it's all they feel. 

In the midst of all that, Erik's orgasm is a faint blip, Charles's own arousal peaking moments later as Erik collapses onto him, his cock growing soft in Charles's hand. They stay like that for several minutes—or is it seconds, or is it hours? Charles can never tell—before Charles slowly starts to withdraw from Erik's mind. Erik clutches at him reflexively, his head still buried in Charles's shoulder. 

_Stay_ , he thinks, his thoughts slow and heavy. _At least for a little while longer?_

 _Whatever you'd like, darling_ , Charles replies, turning to kiss Erik's forehead, enjoying the way the sensation is reflected back at him. _I'll stay as long as you want._

***

They take things slowly for the next few days, Charles still recovering from his sunburn (which starts to peel horribly by the third day, leading him to hole himself up in the ensuite bathroom of the bedroom they've claimed as their own, no matter how much Erik pounds on the door and tells him that he doesn't _care_ , Charles, just come out of there, it doesn't matter—but he never forces the door with his powers, and that just makes Charles love him even more) and Erik still trying to sort through his own feelings. They fuck every night, the floodgates finally opened, but aside from mealtimes and their traditional post-dinner chess game, each of them mostly keeps to himself. 

By the time the worst of the sunburn has finally gone and they've had sex in every room in the house at least once, Charles is going stir-crazy. He's read nearly all the books on his Kindle, he can only explore half the villa without Erik's help because of _course_ the elevator's broken, and he's been antsy about going outside while his head was still molting, no matter that Erik pointedly left a hat by every door that leads to the outdoors. No more.

"I want to go into town," he announces over breakfast, fully expecting to be rebuffed. Erik's been strangely loathe to leave the house, and while Charles can sympathize, enjoying the feeling of living in their own little idyll, he can only handle relative isolation from society for so long. He takes another bite of his French toast, and resists the urge to moan at how good it is. Erik's been doing all the cooking while they've been here; the first time Charles went into the kitchen, Erik forcefully wheeled him back from the stove, telling him to sit in the middle of the room and _touch nothing_. 

("Come on, Erik," he protested. "I'm not that bad."

"You burned water," Erik retorted.

" _One time_ ," Charles shot back.

"It was _five days ago_ , Charles, and we had to get Iceman in to put out the fire."

"…Fine.")

"All right," Erik says calmly. "We need eggs, anyway." He smirks. "But you're wearing a hat."

Charles keeps his face serene as he projects his displeasure sharply across the table. Erik just laughs.

***

As it turns out, Erik forgets _his_ hat, and so by the time they reach town, he's swiped the one Charles had grudgingly set on his head. 

"I thought my wearing a hat was the sole condition for us to come out," Charles says, because he can never leave well enough alone. 

"I feel weird if I go out with my head uncovered," Erik mumbles, not meeting Charles's eyes. Charles doesn't laugh, but it's a close thing. He squeezes Erik's hand comfortingly. 

"I personally think you look lovely without anything on your head, but perhaps I'm biased," he says, trying to keep his tone light. Erik smiles weakly. 

"Perhaps you are at that," he says. He doesn't take the hat off, though. Baby steps. 

The people of the town are very sweet, very welcoming, and—best of all—none of them knows who Charles or Erik is. It's strangely refreshing, not having to blur people's thoughts, not having to smooth away the momentary panic that comes whenever anyone happens to recognize Erik's face (which, now that he's shed the helmet, is a far rarer occurrence than it used to be). They run their errands quickly—Erik gets the produce he claims they need, charming the shopkeepers with his flawless Italian while Charles stumbles through the few words he knows before resorting to his telepathy ( _Cheating_ , Erik projects, which Charles doesn't dignify with a response); Charles sends a few postcards to the children at the school and double-checks his accounts—and then stroll around the town, just enjoying each other's company. 

It's nice; they talk about everything and nothing, and when the conversation lulls, the silence is comfortable, their minds lapping gently against each other the whole time. At the edge of the town, Erik pulls off his hat in concession to Charles, leans down, and kisses him tenderly. 

In that moment, Charles never wants to leave.

***

Charles stares. 

It's the last day of their vacation, and they're going into town one last time so Charles can look for souvenirs and small things to take back for everyone—Erik had grumbled at him when he'd mentioned it, saying something along the lines of _Why couldn't you do this before I'd been hoping to spend the day in bed_ and then Charles had kissed him and promised to make it up to him and Erik had mumbled that he'd better—and Erik, well.

Erik is wearing _jeans_.

Charles stares some more. 

More than that, Erik's jeans, unlike the rest of Erik's perfectly-tailored wardrobe, are a little too long, a little too baggy in the leg, but they outline his arse _beautifully_. It's odd. Even stranger is that Erik's paired the jeans with a charcoal blazer—an outfit that Charles is perfectly happy to wear, but which Erik has sworn is a travesty against man—and a resort shirt that makes it look like he's just stepped off a cruise ship. It's the most casual Charles has ever seen him dress, and it's…

His mouth goes dry. 

Erik arches an eyebrow. "Charles?"

"You're wearing _jeans_ ," Charles chokes out, still stuck on this.

"I've run out of everything else," Erik sighs. "As you'll remember, I'd _hoped_ to stay in today, thus avoiding the issue." 

"You should wear jeans more often." Charles can't help ogling Erik's arse, and he makes his appreciation perfectly clear to encourage more of this behavior in the future. 

"Well, you should never wear that _shirt_ ," Erik says, striding forward and flicking Charles's collar, looking with distaste at the prominent green stripe running down its center. "What on _Earth_ is that stripe, Charles?" 

"It was a present, I'll have you know," Charles replies defensively. 

"From whom? Summers? Because only someone color-blind would have given you that shirt." He pauses, adds haughtily, "And only someone with horrid taste would wear that shirt."

"Do I need to bring up the maroon-and-purple disaster?" Charles asks. 

"You know that wasn't my idea," Erik says, rolling his eyes. "And I fixed it eventually." 

"Yes, the maroon and black was so much better." 

"You really don't have room to talk," Erik retorts. "You dress like an old man."

"Which I _am_."

"You dressed like an old man _long_ before you were one."

"You said you _liked_ my cardigans."

"I said I liked taking them off of you," Erik says, grinning, trailing a finger under Charles's blazer. "Entirely different thing."

"Not _now_ , Erik," Charles says, batting Erik's hand away even as his face flushes. "We're _going_." 

"We don't have to."

"I can't just return home without presents; it's not _done_." 

"Fuck not done," Erik says, leaning down. "Come on, Charles. Live a little." He licks the shell of Charles's ear before biting gently down on his earlobe.

"Incorrigible," Charles gasps. 

"That's not a no." Erik starts kissing his way across Charles's cheek, stopping just over his mouth. "Charles," he says, lips moving against Charles's, "you know you want to." He moves back a little, making it very clear that this is Charles's move—but that he also knows exactly what move Charles will make. 

Charles exhales shakily before surging forward to press his lips to Erik's, pulling off that omnipresent hat and tossing it aside with impunity. Going to town can wait.

***

That night, as they lie in bed, limbs entwined, completely naked, Charles says, "We don't have to go back just yet, you know." 

"We can't stay here forever," Erik says, kissing Charles's forehead, hearing what Charles meant rather than what he said. "You really couldn't be away from the school for longer than a month, my dear." 

"I could—" Charles protests, but he knows even as he says it that it's a lie.

"It's all right," Erik replies. Charles feels him smile. "I know you, Charles; I never expected you to leave your school. So I came to you."

Charles brings Erik's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles lightly, too overcome with emotion to speak. Erik waits patiently. 

"I just don't want things to…be as they were before we left," Charles says finally, turning to press his face into Erik's chest. 

"So they won't," Erik says. 

"It's never that simple, with us," Charles says, with a huff of laughter, his voice just a bit bitter. 

"It could be." Erik slides down a little, presses their temples together, and Charles gets a flash of his thoughts. 

"Oh," he says, sitting up slightly. " _Oh_." He kisses Erik passionately, feeling as if he's trying to pour his soul into Erik through his mouth. Erik kisses back with just as much fervor, and if they were twenty years younger, they'd go for another round. 

"Is that a yes?" Erik asks, barely audible. 

"Oh, my friend," Charles says, his voice choked. "Could I have ever said anything else?"

***

Mystique is at the door to greet them when they return to the mansion. 

"Please tell me you actually got over yourselves and fucked," she says the minute she opens the door to let them in. 

Charles says nothing, merely interlaces his fingers with Erik's as Erik raises his left hand to levitate their bags in. A flash of gold catches the light, and Charles can tell the moment Mystique sees it, watches the way her yellow eyes widen as she looks between the two of them. 

"Everything to your satisfaction, my dear?" Charles asks snidely as he wheels inside, unable to stop projecting an air of smugness and delight throughout the house. 

"Yes, oh my _God_ , stop it, you look like the cat that got the canary _and_ the cream," she says with a shove to his shoulder, though she's laughing.

"I rather did, at that," he replies with a grin, pressing her hand briefly. He feels a burst of warmth from Erik, along with his slight displeasure at being likened to a caged songbird.

 _Cat that got the shark, then, darling?_ he thinks.

 _Better_ , Erik replies, squeezing Charles's hand, lingering briefly on the ring circling Charles's fourth finger. Charles feels it tighten for a moment, and laughs lightly. 

"Ugh," Mystique says. "Stop being so disgustingly happy, you two." She walks away, turning around at the foot of the stairs to say, "I really am glad that actually worked." 

"So am I," Charles says, lacing his fingers with Erik's and smiling up at him. Erik leans down to kiss him, thoughts already focused on getting them to Charles's bedroom—theirs, now. 

Charles laughs as they break apart and starts off down the hall. 

Just before they enter the room, though, he turns to Erik, feeling suddenly serious. 

"You're all right," he says, not quite a question, but not a statement, either. 

Erik takes his hat off, places it in Charles's lap as he walks past him and into their room. He sits on the edge of the bed and flashes his grin, the one Charles fell in love with all those years ago. 

"Perfectly," he says. "More than. You?"

Charles wheels in and shuts the door carefully behind him, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of Erik in his bed—now and forever more. He smiles, again—he can't seem to stop—and wheels himself over. 

"Never better," he says, wrapping his arms around Erik's neck and pulling him down. 

For the first time, when they kiss, Erik feels like _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit is due: professor came up with the condom scenes and (if memory serves) the idea to give Charles a Kindle.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Get Out of Town (On the Road Again Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2113845) by [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/pseuds/Unforgotten)




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